Devon watched her drain her glass and signal for another. She was well past tipsy and heading toward genuinely drunk, but underneath the alcohol was real pain. The kind that went deeper than professional embarrassment.
"Come on," he said, standing and dropping money on the bar. "Let's get you some air."
"I'm fine right here."
"You're drunk, it's getting late, and I'm not leaving you alone in a dive bar to make decisions you'll regret tomorrow."
"Who says I'll regret them?"
"The same smart woman who just told me she's lost everything she cared about. That woman deserves better than waking up in a strange place with no memory of how she got there."
Emery looked up at him, and for a moment her defenses dropped completely. She looked young, lost, and scared. "Why do you care what happens to me?"
The question hit him harder than it should have. "Because someone should. And because watching Harold humiliate you in front of that crowd made me want to punch something."
"My hero," she said, but there was warmth in her voice rather than sarcasm.
"Your designated driver," he corrected. “Let’s get you home.”
“This place I’m renting is ridiculous. I thought if I went with expensive, I’d be telling the universe I was successful and that would force everything to fall into place.” She fumbled in her purse for a key. "Last night of luxury before I start shopping for cardboard boxes."
Devon helped her off the barstool, steadying her when she swayed. “Lots of places to rent in this town. Lots of job prospects, too.”
“You really are too chipper.”
The walk to her Airbnb took twenty minutes, with Devon keeping a careful hand on her elbow as she navigated the sidewalk in heels that had clearly been chosen for standing, not walking. She kept up a steady stream of chatter—about wine, about Harold's terrible toupee, about how she'd always imagined her life turning out differently.
"You know what I thought I'd be doing at thirty-four?” she asked as he took her key. "Married to some respectable museum curator with a house in the suburbs and maybe a kid or two. Very predictable. Very safe."
"Sounds boring."
"Boring sounds pretty good right now." She leaned against the wall. "What about you? What do you want?”
“Exactly what I’m doing.” Devon hit the button for the fifth floor. "Working with my family, making wine, trying not to screw up the legacy."
"The good son."
“That would be Bryson—even when he married what’s her name and then divorced her. I’m the careful son. There's a difference."
Her one-bedroom condo was elegant, with all cream colors, soft lighting, and furniture that cost more than most people's cars.
"Well," Emery said, turning to face him in the doorway. "This is me. Thank you for the escort service and the pep talk. Even if I don't believe a word of it."
"Get some sleep. Things will look different in the morning."
"Will they? Will Harold suddenly not be a lying snake? Will my career magically resurrect itself? Will?—"
Devon stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume underneath the whiskey. "Will you still be the smartest, most capable woman I've ever met? Yeah. That part doesn't change."
Something shifted in her expression. The brittle humor faded, replaced by something vulnerable and raw. "Don't look at me like that." She took a few steps backward, into the kitchen.
He followed. "Like what?"
"Like you believe what you're saying."
They stood there in the doorway between her kitchen and bedroom, the space between them charged with possibility. Devon could see the exact moment she made her decision, could see her defenses crumble completely.
"Stay," she whispered.
